


The Wages of Sin (Is Death)

by jaimesselfishmachines



Series: Sinners and Saints (Are The Same In The End) [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Hamilton can't cope, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal actions, Thomas is in therapy, president jefferson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-16 00:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14152902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: "You can't outrun your sins forever." Thomas had said the words to Washington almost a decade ago. But only Alexander took the words to heart.Alexander reminisces too long about his war-time service, in the aftermath of Washington's death.





	1. It's Cold Outside (And Quiet Uptown)

**Author's Note:**

> Curly Brackets { } indicate characters speaking in French.  
> (Because I'm not fluent. I did what I could.)  
> Set about a week after Alexander met with Washington in prison. Thomas goes to see Alexander's Uptown hideaway.

Thomas groaned, rubbing his leg as he reached gingerly for his cane. He should have taken the elevator up here, but elevators had cameras, and he couldn’t be seen. Thomas knew better than to come here without telling his husband, but he knew James would want to accompany him, instead of running the country in his _unforeseen_ absence. Technically, James was only the First Gentleman, but Thomas didn't trust Vice-President Burr as far as he could be thrown.

Thomas tapped the lion’s head at the crown of his cane on the ash-coloured door, a haphazard sound of no sequence or rhythm. Thomas leaned on his cane once again, half-regretting the three flights of stairs he climbed to arrive here. There were a few hollow thuds, and a few more dull clinks before the door opened about four inches, and Thomas was graced with the sight of half of Hamilton’s face. A chain separated the two men, and Thomas could very well guess what prompted Alexander to install the security feature.

“Mister President.” Thomas hadn’t called ahead, but Hamilton didn’t look surprised to see him.

“You haven’t been answering my calls.” Thomas had seen Alexander that winter afternoon, less than a week ago, all bloody and small and shivering, staring intently with a vacant expression at everything and everyone that crossed his path. Thomas had seen it, in the shock on Alex’s face, in the inability to explain what had happened or where the blood had come from. Thomas had seen it, had felt it, and it had petrified him.

“What are you doing here?” Alexander asked. Thomas saw it in the younger man’s eyes; he looked tired, but in a way more fitting of world-weariness than any kind of sleep deprivation he was surely used to. Thomas remembered giving Alex the cash, and not asking any questions as to what it was for. And even though Thomas had inadvertently financed Alexander’s departure, he had never imagined it possible to pack up and move all your belongings in such a short space of time.

Thomas had rehearsed his speech on the way up, but looking at Alexander now, all the words seemed to evaporate. His eased the weight off his aching leg and sighed. “I needed to see you.”

“Why?” Alexander’s eyes narrowed.

When the news of the Washington Scandal first broke, they had trusted each other completely, each vowing to support the other through the traumatic aftermath. Over time, though, resentment had carved lines in Alexander’s furrowed brow, paired with the anger that Jefferson’s government was paying lip service to sexual assault survivor resource funding. Thomas and James disagreed with that, arguing that Thomas was doing all he could with what he had. They had kept in touch over the years, with Alexander officiating the Jefferson-Madison wedding, but it hadn’t always been amicable. Naturally, they had drifted apart. Until that day Alex showed up on the White House Lawn with puffed cheeks and an unwavering objective to visit Washington in prison. Thomas cursed himself for not going with Alexander then, especially when he had seen the state Alex returned in.

Thomas bit his lip. “I had to make sure I wasn’t crazy for feeling the way I do.” If the goal was to make Alexander let his guard down, it didn’t work.

“What way is that?”

“Let me in, Alexander.”

“I’m not really prepared to accept guests.” Alex said quietly, attempting to shut the door. Thomas raised an eyebrow, sticking the end of his cane in the gap.

“Please.” Thomas whispered, “I just wanna talk.”

Alexander huffed.

The door shut in Thomas’s face, and he heard the sound of metal sliding against metal before it opened again. Alexander said nothing, just stood aside, allowing Thomas to enter. The apartment was average in every way, with nothing standing out as particularly notable. There are no personal effects, no indication that anyone was even living there. He scanned the room, noting the twin beds separated by a bedside table. Only one had rumpled sheets. The other bed was draped in shadow from where Alexander had closed the blinds beside it.

“Go on,” Alexander prompted, stumbling across the room, “Talk."

He passed Thomas and slumped in a chair nestled in the corner closest to the unmade bed. The oversized jersey Alexander wore drowned his small frame. He ran a hand through his hair, and Thomas followed the path, from waist to crown, with his eyes. Alexander looked smaller than he did in the Oval Office a few days prior, and Thomas worried for the man’s safety. Alex’s eyes were sunken into his skull and his greasy hair was frizzy and unkempt.

“How are you?” Thomas asked, leaning his cane against the wall. He crossed the room to sit on the unmade bed, closer to Alex. “Have you been sleeping at all?” Thomas knew he hasn’t seen his bed in a while. Thomas also knew James was starting to notice his absence.

Alexander scoffed, “I watched my rapist slit his throat and bleed out right in front of me. How the fuck do you think I’m doing?” Thomas leaned back a little from the force of the words, and the smell of liquor they carried. “I can’t even close my eyes without seeing his smug face and those cold dead eyes looking through me… He slit his throat with a fucking smile,” The ‘I’ in _smile_ dragged itself along Alexander’s teeth, trapped by a heavy, liquor-laden tongue. Alexander slumped further into his chair, and retrieved the clear bottle from the corner before taking a swig.

“I can’t sleep unless I’m drunk.” Alex said, waving away Thomas’s concern as though the excuse was perfectly reasonable. He leaned forward, closer to Thomas, and the President forced himself not to recoil in disgust. Unlike Thomas, it seemed like Alex’s preference lay squarely in the realm of clear liquors. Tilting the bottle in Thomas’s direction, Alexander slurred, “Want some?”

Thomas pursed his lips, “I-I can't,” he said, standing to take his coat off. Thomas side-eyed Alex as he did so, gently laying the long purple garment on the bed shrouded in shadow. "Should I take you to my next AA meeting?" His words were sharp, but artificial. He doesn't know the last time he went to an AA meeting. He could definitely remember the last time he wanted a drink.

“Shit,” Alex said, giggling at the blunder. His face reddened as he peeked through his eyelashes at Thomas, “I didn’t think.” He punctuated his sentence with another extended series of gulps, and Thomas watched as the liquid content was slowly depleted. Alexander stared into space before seemingly remembering the relevant topic of conversation. “So, how is it, that you feel?”

“Like I lost.”

“Fuck off. You didn’t lose shit,” Alexander leaned back in his chair, “ _President_ Jefferson.” 

Thomas didn’t take the bait. Now was not the time to compare scores. Now was not the time to measure who had 'won' or 'lost' more from Washington's misdeeds. Not when cleaning crews were more than likely still scrubbing Washington's blood off the steel floor of Interview Room 3. Not when the long messy cuts - crescent shaped, thick - on Thomas's left wrist were still red and raw. Thomas had made them unconsciously, half-asleep, whilst pacing the West Wing of the White House, head too heavy with thoughts of his resemblance to Washington.

“Like I don’t deserve the joy I feel knowing that he’s dead. I feel like… in a way… he won.” Thomas didn't scratch, just rubbed his thumb softly over the scabbing cuts.

“He’s good at fucking with people’s heads. Even from b’yond the grave.” Alexander said it as though he was talking to himself, but the volume made Thomas know Alex was aware of his audience. His next words were less carefully chosen, galloping out of his mouth like a show-horse with stage fright. “He mentioned that there were others. He didn’t name names; I don’t even know if they exist; I haven’t had a chance to check; what if there are others like us? How many are suffering? How many dead? How many couldn't say no? How many young soldiers..?” Alex's mind drifted to his old battalion. The thought made him sick.

“Alexander,” Thomas said, placing a hand on Alex’s knee, “ _I’m_ sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I should have come with you.”

“N-No. It’s… you had your presidential duties,” Alexander hand-waved the apology away, imagining it dissipating into the air. He stared pointedly at Thomas’s hand. “Is _that_ what you’re here for?” Thomas raised an eyebrow.

Thomas didn’t have time to question what Alexander meant before Alex had settled into his lap and pushed him down on the bed, lips pressed firmly against his neck. “Alexander, I’m married.” Thomas didn’t move as Alexander began sucking lightly on his pulse-point, but when Alex reached for Thomas’s waistband, Jefferson rolled out from underneath Alex, grunting when he hit a lump in the mattress. He pushed Alex off to the side, leaving them both lying parallel to one another. “I won’t make the same mistake again.”

Alex seemed somewhat relieved by the rejection, exhaling slowly as he spread out – as much as was physically possible – onto the cool, white sheets. He closed his eyes, “Has anyone ever told you how much you look like him?”

“Huh?” Jefferson reached for the edge of the sheet in an effort to unearth the weight digging into his back.

“Lafayette.” Alexander swallowed around the name. Alexander reached up to trace Thomas’s hairline, “When you put your hair in one, you…” and Thomas wrapped his hand gently around Alex’s wrist, feeling the soft throbbing of his pulse. Alex cleared his throat, forcing out the words, {“Speak with me, please, in French.”}  

Thomas looked down to see tears coating Alex’s cheeks, and decided to oblige him in his request. He wracked his brain, trying to remember what Lafayette had called Hamilton when they had fought side by side. Thomas was sure Lafayette had told him at some point. Thomas nodded, unseen by Alex.

“Mon petit leon, parle à moi. Confesse tes péchés. Tu est en sécurité ici.” Thomas rested a warm palm on the side of Alex’s face, thumb swiping at another tear. This motion prompted Alex to release a wretched sob, curling into Thomas’s side like he was a little boy again, in need of a father’s protection.

{“Lafayette was the first person I ever loved. I didn’t get a chance to actually tell him, but I like to think he knew.”} Alexander said between sobs, {“We were just boys, then. He was an immigrant like me. I mean, we didn't really know anything about war, not really. He was so pure, and Washington...”} It was easier to say the words in his native tongue, to finally be able to grieve in a way that didn’t involve drowning the problem in vodka. Ten years ago, he and Thomas would have been at each other’s throats, and no one would have been able to even fathom their current exchange. But this was not ten years ago, and there was no Washington to pit them against each other. {“Washington killed him. I never got to say goodbye. I have no idea where Laf is buried, or even how or when he died… Washington took everything I loved away from me. He took it, crushed it under his boot, then went out to kill more redcoats.”}

Thomas wondered if James was included in the _everything_ Alex spoke of, but didn’t ask. {“I know, Alexandre.”} Thomas whispered into Alexander’s hair, {“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”} He said it over and over, as though his words alone could fix all that had happened. Thomas shifted his weight closer to Alex, and off the lump digging into his back.

“You shouldn’t be sorry.” Alex said, his voice hoarse. {“I killed people too. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder. Like one day, I’ll have to explain to a British soldier, how I personally killed their brother. How I watched them bleed out into a pool I pretended was just their red coat."} His words ran into each other, weighted by grief and guilt. He switched back to English as he gripped tightly at Thomas’s shirt. “ _Was it no less of a sin because they wore a different colour_?”

Thomas said nothing, choosing instead to wrap an arm even closer around Alex as he shook. Thomas wasn’t sure what to say to something like that, or if there was anything _to_ say.

Alex sniffed, dragging a hand down his face after deciding not to wipe his tears on Thomas’s shirt. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he laughed softly in an attempt to ease the tension, “War has never been beautiful.”

“I-I wouldn’t know.” Thomas looked away, rubbing his throat. All of Thomas's friends, enemies, and even most of his associates had served in some capacity. Even James, with his extended illness. They had fought for the nation, and seen the carnage, whilst he had over-induldged in wine and women and men and coke. He had swept into the political foreground, unblemished and unscathed, after a secret stint in a rehab facility some 450 miles away. “Do you think I abandoned my country? {Do you think of me, a coward, Alexander?”}

Alex was silent for a moment. {“Does it matter what I think, Mister President?”} He eased himself away from Thomas, up into standing position. He swayed a little, then bent over to find purchase on the bed so as to avoid toppling over.

“Yes.” For some reason, Thomas’s opinion of Hamilton didn’t depreciate even though he was drunk, and in very much an undignified state. Part of Thomas mourned the loss of warmth beside him.

Alexander smiled, though his lips barely curved upwards. “You kicked your addictions, fought suicidal thoughts, stood up to Washington… You are in no way a coward. In fact, you’re a far better man than me.” As if to demonstrate the point, Alexander’s stomach contents began to rebel against his insides. He stumbled across the room, to the bathroom – as much as his uncoordinated limbs would allow – and began violently puking.

Thomas pushed off the bed, unbuttoning his waistcoat in preparation for dealing with the drunken Alexander. He flung the garment over his coat and rolled up his sleeves before going over to Alex. Thomas kneeled down, placing his palms flat on Alexander’s shoulder blades as his fingers began to gather the errant black locks. Thomas gripped them loosely in his fist, giving some leeway for when Alexander pulled away from him and into the toilet bowl. With his other hand, Thomas rubbed Alex’s back. 

“Shhh, you’re okay. You’re okay. Just let it out.” Thomas whispered. It had been years since he had seen anyone ~~himself~~ this drunk, but Alexander had a valid excuse. From the sounds of Alex’s earlier statements, though, it seemed as though Alex was on the edge of the deep crevasse that Thomas had crawled out of decades before, and then again years later. “Have you taken or ingested anything else? Any drugs?”

“No,” the word echoed in the porcelain bowl. Alexander spat, exhaled, and then raised his head to close the lid. He rested his head on the toilet seat cover, reaching up to flush. Thomas let the hair in his hand fall as Alexander forced himself to turn around. “Help me up?” Thomas stood and reached out for Alexander’s shoulder, leveraging his position to get Alexander to stand alongside him. Managing that, Alexander lurched toward the sink.

Alexander splashed the cold water on his face. He rinsed his mouth out then grabbed his toothpaste and toothbrush, aggressively scrubbing the taste of vomit out of his mouth. He spat audibly, exhaling labouredly as he gripped the sink with shaky hands. In an attempt to regulate his breathing, he removed his jersey, letting his skin be exposed to the cool air. “I-I’m gonna shower, oka-?”

“Alexander.”

Alex paused. Thomas’s voice was tinged with worry, and Alex turned in the direction of the voice. Alexander must have been out of it, because he hadn’t realized Thomas had left him alone in the bathroom. Alexander padded backwards, even as his head spun. His eyes scanned the room quickly, looking for the source of the president’s alarm. Thomas had clearly attempted to make the bed more inviting for the time when Alex’s body – under the influence of exhaustion and alcohol – would collapse into unconsciousness. The white sheets, wrinkled and warm, were still gathered in a pile, were still clutched tight to Thomas’s chest, their change in position having unearthed the source of Thomas’s earlier discomfort. It had dug into his back, and now it sank into the mattress.

“Were you going to hurt yourself?” Thomas asked, turning to Alex, who was leaning against the threshold.

“What?” Alexander’s eyes were focused on his shiny black gun laying in stark contrast to the white mattress. His brain was swimming in vodka, and he was certain, that for all his oratory abilities, he couldn’t find a single valid excuse for his possession.

“Why do you have a gun?"  Thomas didn’t want to waste time deciphering Alexander’s poor portrayal of cluelessness. "I-I was just lying on that. I could’ve been shot!” 

“It’s my service weapon.” Alex sighed, pushing off the doorframe. He stepped between Thomas and the bed, hoping to distract Thomas from the weapon. “You’d have been fine. It’s a grip safety.” Alex said nonchalantly. He reached behind him, wrapping his fingers around what he clocked as the barrel. He curved his arm forward, switching the gun to his other hand where he could grip it properly, just as Washington had trained him to do all those years ago. He aimed at the ground. “Is that better?”

“No.” Thomas said, “You need help. Give me the gun.” Thomas reached his hand out in a placating manner, facial features soft and soothing. He knew this behaviour well. The increased drinking, the isolation, the reckless behaviour… Alexander was suicidal.

“I’m helping myself.”

“By blowing your brains out?”

“Better than drinking yourself to death!” Alex said purposefully, raising his arm to press the gun against his temple. His aim was shaky, and the barrel never stayed firm against his temple. "This isn't living. I'm still his fucking play-thing."

“Put the gun down.”

Alex’s eyes were glassy, “I’m exhausted. I ju-just need it to end.”

“I know, Alex.” Thomas whispered above the sound of his pounding heart, “I know. Just… give me the gun, okay? We can fix this together.”

Alex’s hands shook. Just like Thomas’s voice did.

“G-give me the gun, Alex.”

“You ever think I should have never come to New York? Should’ve stayed on the island? Should’ve never answered Washington’s call for recruits?”

“I think we can talk about this after you put down the gun. Washington is dead, Alex. We can move past his legacy. There’s nothing anyone can use against you now; you’ve gone public. Just give me the gun and w-”

“He’s never really gone. When I _do_ ever sleep, he’s always there, always with the _'_ _son_ 's and the _'_ _good boy_ 's and the… He’s the first and last man I ever had sex with. I mean, I feel sick whenever someone touches me. I’m going to die alone, so why wait another fifty years when I can end it now?” Alex’s grip on the gun wavered as he brought his hand down to wipe a stray tear. “Leave me be, Thomas. It’ll be like you were never here. You can go, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“No, I’m not leaving without you.”

“Why not?”

“Without you, Washington would still be commanding our every move. Without you, James and I would both be dead. I owe you my life, I owe you my husband’s life, and you owe it yourself to save your own.” Thomas said solemnly, “Now, give me the gun.”

Alex scrutinized Thomas’s expression, as though evaluating his words and body language for any lie. His hands shook and his body begged his brain to stop rebelling against him. His eyes found the red lines, halfway up Thomas's arm, over already-scarred skin that had since long healed and faded. Alexander exhaled, breath broken and torn. He inched his hand down, slowly and slowly and slowly and slowly, until the barrel of the gun was firmly in Thomas’s waiting palm. Alex unwrapped his fingers from the grip, letting the gun travel farther and farther out of his reach.

 

Then, Alexander collapsed into Thomas's chest, and broke down sobbing.

 

 

 


	2. Rage is Warm, Scotch is Warmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I almost relapsed last night. I’m fucking scared of what I can do to myself. How much power I wield. What if this job is… what if I’m just like him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon after chapter 1.

 

James peeked his head around the door, and Thomas honed in on his husband’s expression almost immediately. It was the same expression seven years ago, after the last time Washington… Thomas shook his head, banishing the thought to the outskirts of his mind. _He_ was the president now, with Washington disgraced and dead. Thomas made a mental note to call Alexander sometime soon, just to check up on how he was doing, considering that Washington had just fucked with his head, again. Thomas waved James into the Oval Office.

“You didn’t come to bed last night,” James said. The sentence was a simple statement of fact. What James didn’t have to say was: ‘because you ran off with Alexander’.

“I haven’t been in the mood,” Thomas said, trying to ignore the unsaid _‘or the night before, or the night before that, what are you hiding?’_ Maybe it was his own guilt talking.

“You weren’t answering your phone. I needed you.” James said quietly, his only competition the ticking clock in the corner of the room. The television was mute behind him, no doubt left on from this afternoon. James’s anger was undermined by his trembling hands and the tremor in his voice. “The press knows about Mercer. Mulligan's taking aim at the entire administration.”

“What do you mean?” Thomas asked, eyes wandering intermittently to his desk drawer. He really should throw it out, or at least put it somewhere less accessible, less able to coax him into drinking again.

“The Washington Adv--”

“Tabloid fodder.” Thomas scowled.

“The Washington Advocate. Mulligan is saying I had an affair with Mercer whilst he was still married. He’s trying to paint me as a sexed-up student with slept with Mercer for an A.”

“Hercules has always been against my election; he’s a shill for Washington.”

“This isn’t about you! For two seconds can we just talk about my trauma being splayed out for the American Public whilst you went AWOL?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Thomas registered James’s proximity, then glanced at the drawer before his eyes settled on his husband. James caught the nervous gesture and strode over the desk, yanking it open. “James, wait.”

 _It was not like he ever would_ , Thomas told himself, but whenever he was missing from the marital bed – save for the last three days – it was because he spent his time here, just staring at his mistress in silver. It was the most beautiful flask, a gift from Philip’s widow. She had blushed at the funeral service, gifted it to Thomas along with a litany of comforting apologies, an ironic inversion considering that they had just put her husband in the ground. Thomas had been sober then, had locked the flask away and out of reach. But then his self-hate, and Hamilton, and hard liquor had happened, and Thomas had filled the flask with scotch. He never drank it, feeling it to be disrespectful to his friend’s memory.  It was easier to deal with her than picking up pretty young things in a bar; it wasn’t as though he could get away with that now. Not only was Thomas the President, but his therapist Eliza Schuyler (whenever he stopped ghosting her) also wouldn’t be very happy about it.

And so the flask had sat, untouched, in his drawer. A constant temptation. It moved into the White House when Thomas did, always out of sight of James Madison. Until now.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” James thought aloud. His thumb swiped over the silver engraving of the flask. “Did you drink while you were with him?”

Thomas spent some nights just admiring the silver finish, running his thumb over the engraving – _To Philip, my eternal love –_ and leaning it from side to side, just to hear the soft flow of liquid inside. Last night, after he had returned from Hamilton’s uptown apartment, Thomas had unscrewed the top and inhaled the fumes, waiting until he could almost taste the dark liquid swirling around his tongue. It scared him, how close he was to relapse, and couldn’t shake the feeling of shame that washed over him, like scotch once did. Thomas must have been silent too long, because James was now looking at him with an eyebrow raised. The First Gentleman was opposite Thomas, less than three feet away, and Thomas could see the stubble on James’s chin, and the bags under his eyes. He hadn’t slept. Then again, neither had Thomas.

Thomas looked up slowly, using the precious seconds to come up with an excuse convincing enough to get James off his back. “James,” Thomas said through his teeth as he thought of what was to follow.

“Don’t _James_ me, Thomas!” James closed the gap between them in seconds, with anger accompanying every movement. He was in Thomas’s space, eyes narrowed, flask shoved in Thomas’s face, “Did you have even a _drop_ of alcohol while you were with Alexander?” James knew all too well how each man enabled the other in their respective vices.

“No, what? No!” Thomas exclaimed, half in anger and half in regret. Maybe drinking would have made this argument worth it. “I’m sober. How _dare_ you even ask me that.” His jaw was tight with indignation. On admittedly shaky legs, Thomas leaned on his cane and stood to full height.

“You’ve got scotch in your desk, and you wonder why I don’t trust you right now?” James shook the flask to emphasize his point. “You were gone for two days, Thomas!”

“I had to see if –”

“Did you fuck him?” James didn’t look angry anymore. Somehow, Thomas hated this look more. He had seen the same look seven years ago, and even back then he had vowed to never again be the cause. How James was hanging on by a thread, how one word of confirmation could break him. How, right before Thomas’s eyes, James would melt into a puddle of grief. The room was tense with unspoken history and the weight of potential infidelity. “Thomas, please…” James’s eyes were open and imploratory, just like his body language. His hand dropped, leaving the silver flask to stand on the desk between them. “Tell me you didn’t sleep with him.”

To the left of Thomas, the executive phone rang and Thomas shot an apologetic look at his husband. If it was Alexander, he had to answer it. He had to show Alexander that nothing he had said was a lie. That he was worthy of the trust Alex had placed in him. “I have to take this.” He said, reaching for the phone.

“No. You answer me now.” Thomas tried not to wince as James gripped Thomas’s wrist tightly, preventing further movement. Thomas felt the thick scar against the back of his knuckles, raised at James’s wrist from the seven-year-old suicide attempt. In the background, the news cycle continued, detailing the passing and funeral arrangements of George Washington. Alexander’s picture was shown, as the reporter chronicled and frankly, scandalized the account of Hamilton’s abuse at the hands of a revolutionary hero.

“I didn’t sleep with Alexander,” Thomas said with a sigh, though the proclamation didn’t undo any of the knots in his stomach, nor did it lighten the weighty guilt on his back. It was the truth, but Thomas didn’t exactly think it made everything else he did okay. Thomas leaned heavily on his cane, the stress making his leg ache more than usual. “But I watched as he put a gun to his head, and told me he was going to die alone. I talked him down, then slept in the other bed.”

“Shit, are you okay?”

“I’m numb, James.” Thomas’s voice shook without his consent, “I don’t know why I can’t feel anything.” It wasn’t entirely true. He felt relieved that Washington was dead, guilty that he felt that way, and angry at himself for allowing the guilt. The phone went silent, and Thomas was unable to distract himself any longer.

“Have you spoken to Eliza?” James figured that Thomas needed someone to speak to. Someone that wasn’t him, someone that Thomas wouldn’t be ashamed to bare his soul to. James twisted his wedding ring about his finger.

“No,” Thomas replied, sighing softly as he settled back into his chair, “I-I’ve been avoiding her calls.” He leaned the cane against the armrest of his chair. Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to communicate, his therapist had told him that, years ago, that isolating himself was feeding the cycle, was coaxing him down the slippery slope that led only to relapse.

“Thomas.” James, noticing the prolonged silence, crouched down to Thomas’s eye-level. He exhaled slowly, “Are you okay?” His voice was strong in an attempt to ground his husband. It didn’t work.

“N-no. No, James. I’m not. I’m really fucking not.” Thomas exhaled shakily, cradling his head in his hands. Thomas didn’t have the energy to lash out in misguided anger. His hand reached for the flask, highlighting his point, “I almost relapsed last night. I’m fucking scared of what I can do to myself. How much power I wield. What if this job is… what if I’m just like him?”

“What do you mean?” James shook his head with conviction, “You’re nothing like Washington. You’re a good president. You’re a good man. You’re –” James didn’t get to finish; Thomas clearly had not asked the question to be convinced otherwise, but to prompt his spiralling.  

“Unfit for government.” Thomas began, speaking over James, “A-Alex, he climbed into my lap. He was drunk. It reminded me of myself all those years ago. He tried to seduce me; I don’t even think he wanted it. He just assumed some role Washington taught him.” Thomas’s gesticulations calmed into an intense stillness, “We failed him, James. Whether you think it’s true or not, we let him take the fall.”

“It’s not like you could come out in solidarity with him; you were Sec of State. It would have ruined your career.”

“That’s the same thing Washington said.” Thomas laughed hard, hunching over as his loud guffaw swiftly devolved into weeping. “You and Alexander. Washington broke you two up. He raped me, and it’s the only reason we’re together.”

James cleared his throat as the sound of blood rushing through his ears threatened to overwhelm him. He stood, staring Thomas in the face. James rounded the desk, moving back to the other side of the symbolic separation that emboldened Thomas, and placed his hands behind his back. James opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, then closed it when the words refused to come. How Thomas could possibly say such a thing after almost a decade together and, “You got high, you got drunk, you lied about going to France for the first half of our relationship, that is, _before_ you fucked my ex-fiancée, and you just disappeared for days on end! And you think this is Washington’s doing?” James yelled as he gestured between them, the vein popping from his neck in exertion.

“You were supposed to marry Alexander,”

“He was reckless, and lied to me almost constantly.”

“Washington made Alex do those things, and you abandoned him.”

“I didn’t abandon him. This isn’t my fault.”James said, scratching at his stubble wearily. “You should talk to Eliza,” Thomas refusing therapy was probably one causative factor of his midnight flight to Alexander’s doorstep, “you aren’t in control of this, and you’re projecting your feelings onto me. For how long have you looked at me and thought of Washington?”

Thomas didn’t answer the question; instead, he said the words, “I want a divorce.” with a snarl. He didn’t want that. It was just easier to break James’s heart, than to admit how fucked up this whole situation was.

James felt the wind knocked out of him, as tears pricked at his eyes. Instead of feeding into the toxicity, he schooled his expression and shook his head. “You’re full of shit, and I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning, or whenever you get your head out of your ass.”


	3. The Washington Advocate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We can cover this up."  
> "That sounds illegal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter consists of excerpts of clippings from Newspaper Articles, spanning a 3-month gap between chapter 2 and the sequel.

 

 

“We can cover this up.” Thomas suggested, holding the iPad high. “We can make this disappear.”

“That sounds illegal.” Alexander piped up. He had the print edition in his hands, and guided his fingertips over the small type. “Plus… it’s mostly true. Even down to the smallest details.”

“How did they find out?” James sank into the Oval Office’s plush couch, head in his hands. “The only people are ever told are in this room.”

Alexander was first to defend himself, “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Neither did I.” Thomas said.

 

 

* * *

 

[ _And Mr Madison’s history of promiscuity and reckless behaviour renders him unfit to represent the people of the United States in any capacity. Clearly, the impressionable young Madison sought to elevate his status by associating with the late, great General Mercer. When the decorated officer was too honourable to bend to will of the cunning – yet academically inadequate – Madison, the young man decided to concoct a story and disparage the general’s legacy..._ ]

 

[ _Mr Madison’s claims that the encounter was non-consensual are far-fetched and an insult to victims of sexual assault everywhere. In an alternative universe where Mr Madison’s statements hold even a grain of truth to them, Candidate Jefferson – if he wishes to continue a viable presidential campaign – ought to distance himself from Mr Madison, whether by divorce, or public disavowal..._ ]

 

_[Though notouriously difficult to unseat an incumbent, Burr seems to be gaining ground, especially in states traditionally held by Candidate Jefferson. Even in Jefferson and Madison's home state of Virginia, the tide seems to be turning. Still, with a year until Election Day, how it will all turn out remains to be seen...]_

 

_[A major strike to Jefferson's approval rating again this week, as people are asking questions as to whether he is, in fact, suitable for Office. His previous job as Secretary of State has left him with a lot of enemies, many of whom still associate him with the disgraced general. Unfortunately, the Washington Scandal may have marred the careers of more than just Washington...]_

 

_[Allegations of sexual misconduct have been floating around, but have never been substantiated. Still, many believe that if not a perpetrator himself, President Jefferson, then Secretary of State, was otherwise involved in the cover-ups of the Washington Scandal. With then-Secretary of the Treasury, Alexander Hamilton, now holding an undefined non-cabinet position in Jefferson Administration, others believe that the two colluded in some form of malfeasance, in order to guarantee Jefferson's ascension to power...]_

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr @ jaimesselfishmachines


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